


Raven by the Month

by greerwatson



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Blood Drinking, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janette places the monthly order for her nightclub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raven by the Month

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brightknightie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightknightie/gifts).



> A warning: sensitive people may find this story a little difficult, at least at one point. Please remember that the characters are vampires, with all that that entails. (I hope, though, that you'll find it _ends_ all right.)

There is something perverse about a vampire ordering beer nuts.

Janette refrained from sighing, for every vampire in the club would have heard, even though she was in her office. Her mortal clientele had expectations for which, as proprietor of the Raven, she needed to cater. This was, however, rather less simple than she had assumed when she first bought the building and the liquor licence: each brand had its own flavour; and some were eaten more swiftly than others. Pretzels, peanuts, pork rinds—no, scratch the scratchings. Should she try wasabi peas? She gathered they were becoming popular.

Wine: should she change the house brand? Wine coolers. (She concealed a shudder.) Beer: Molson Canadian, Carling Black Label, Coors Light, Labatt Blue. Should she stock some seasonal ales? Harvest stout? Pumpkin flavour?

All were sickening to her vampire palate, in a way that would never have been true a thousand years before. She could swallow wine, well cut with blood; but, in her opinion, the grape ruined the flavour, even if it did impart a sufficiently alcoholic smell to fool her bartender. To place her regular order for stock for the Raven, she had to rely on advice and research—and, of course, the previous month’s sales.

Duty done, she turned with relief to her _other_ monthly order. Here, her tongue could play her true. Certainly, after a thousand years, she considered herself more than tolerably expert, though she granted the greater experience of her master, who had tasted vintages that were now millennia extinct.

Beyond the door were the sounds of the club, clear to her vampire ears: the patrons at the bar, placing their orders; the chink of glasses, and the pop of corks; the tap and clatter of dancing feet; and, over all, the loud beat of the music. She had brought into her office four bottles—one, simply as quality control; the others, from potential new suppliers.

Each was tinted the classic green of a bottle designed to hold red wine. Each was labelled, discreetly.

First, Janette uncorked one of the last bottles remaining from the previous shipment of her _other_ “house red”, and reached for the glass on her desk. She poured a small puddle in the bottom, sufficient to test the flavour without wasting the rest of the bottle, whose contents would be sold at the bar that evening. She picked the glass up without ceremony, and sipped.

It was a blend, of course; sourced semi-legitimately from a Canadian supplier who purchased blood diverted from the Canadian Blood Services, which she then bottled in the Niagara Region, using a winery as cover. Not unpalatable, and certified fresh (or fresh enough); but without distinction.

Janette rolled the blood round on her tongue. Yes, entirely without distinction. To be precise, no distinct _individual_ flavour, none remaining in any drop. Even so, she could tell that, well refrigerated as it had been, the blood was nourishing enough for the party crowd. It was certainly still fit to be sold.

She thought of Alma, who would drink anything. Or anyone.

Rising, Janette took the glass through to her private rest room, tossed the dregs down the sink, rinsed the glass clean, and carefully swilled all traces of blood from the porcelain. She then returned to her office, and contemplated the three remaining bottles. Each came from a specialty “winery”. Their vampire owners vied for sales to the Raven. The question was how much (if any) she should order from each.

The American import was the cheapest. (She would not, of course, pay import duty.) Each bottle was guaranteed to come from a single donor, the memories and sensations thus unsullied. She suspected, though, that this brand was cheap for a reason.

Janette poured a small but sufficient sample into the glass, swirled it gently to air the blood, and took a sip. Yes, it was as she thought. _Paid_ donors, and of the lowest class. Unsullied blood, yes; but not unsullied lives. As the memories sank into her veins, Janette realized that she was drinking a single mother who augmented her welfare cheque in any way she could. The flavour disgusted her with its familiarity: a part-time prostitute’s memories of her latest john.

Not caring who might hear, she flew—as only a vampire can fly—to the bathroom, where she spat out the blood, rinsed the glass and her mouth, spat again, and then repeated. Refuge she might offer to the sisters of the night; but she had no wish herself to relive that experience, even by proxy.

She returned to her desk, corked the bottle firmly (for she could still taste the woman’s life as the blood scent rose), and filled out a modest order. Foul though it might be in _her_ mouth, she knew there were those who might relish the drink.

The next trial bottle also guaranteed unmixed single-sourced blood. It came from a South American company; and therefore potentially offered lives that might be considered exotic—well, at least from the perspective of a young Canadian vampire.

She uncorked it, poured it out, warmed the bowl of the glass in her hands to raise the flavour.

Ah! Taken by violence in the favelas of Rio: this was more to her taste. She drained the mouthful in the glass and poured again. A poor man, but honest in his way. No doubt his family mourned him. For a moment, she wondered if they’d been left a body for the funeral—if they’d even had the money for a priest, and a coffin, and a grave. Then she dismissed the thought: all would die, sooner or later, grieving with their unanswered questions. They would die and their bodies rot. It was better that their blood sustain the _un_ dying.

More expensive, but better value: she placed an order. Those who stayed in the cellar of the Raven, who drank in the club before it opened—or after it closed—would readily pay for such sustenance.

Finally, with anticipation, she opened the final bottle. A special vintage, to be stocked only for the most discerning of her patrons. Not a death drink; but a select donation, diverted immediately, for why waste the likes of this ambrosia on a hospital transfusion?

Of this, she poured a half glass only. The bottle, corked, was returned immediately to chill storage. It would be sold by the ounce, and sipped.

She made it last.

She ordered six bottles, each unique. Each named; and each name known.

That night, Nicolas came to the club. She offered him a glass of this most prized vintage, warming the bowl so that he could smell the delicious temptation. He turned it down, of course. He would not be her Nicolas, if he had not; but she would continue to tempt him.

The drinks order, when she sent it off, included two bottles of cow. It was not, of course, something she would offer in the club. But she always stocked it.


End file.
